


Great Diligence

by Rhinocio



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: ADHD Jake, ADHD Minerva, Demisexual Duck, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22100680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhinocio/pseuds/Rhinocio
Summary: Minerva is no stranger to expectation. She has carried its varying weight across her shoulders her entire life, and has seldom faltered. After years as a partner to Duck Newton, she knows there are responsibilities she may yet be asked to take on, and is confident that she can. But the patterns relationships follow on Earth are different than on Five, and Minerva may have finally found the proverbial straw of obligation able to break her back.
Relationships: Mama & Minerva (The Adventure Zone), Minerva & Jake Coolice, Minerva/Duck Newton
Comments: 53
Kudos: 131





	Great Diligence

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the first fic in the TAZ fandom to use the "Minerva & Jake Coolice" tag. Huge shoutout to [Punka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannaGoesUp/pseuds/HannaGoesUp) for doing the sweetest, most helpful beta work on this bad boy, and to the [Ducknerva Discord](https://discord.gg/eRHa5mz) for constantly inspiring me to make more content. You guys are the worst/best.

Being introduced to the parents of one’s romantic partner, as Minerva understands it, is a rite of passage wherein a good first impression is paramount to the continued success of the partnership. She decides, when Duck asks her to travel with him to meet his mother and father, that she will handle the encounter with all the grace she once did formal events on Five, and as Aubrey Little might say, ‘nail it’. Preliminary questions have her certain that she has nothing to fear except her own ineloquence, and Minerva is made confident by the way Duck squeezes her hand as they exit their plane from Brazil and murmurs, “I’ll be right here with you.”

There seems to be little to fear, in fact, when she does meet Eleanor and James Newton. They are kind to her and enthusiastic about her presence, though Minerva has to brace herself against several (repulsed?) questions about her tattoos. She and Duck had agreed to provide a fabricated story of her history should either Elder Newton inquire where she hailed from, and though the falsehoods are awkward on her lips, they are accepted without much argument. Minerva is welcomed into the home of her partner’s family, and the first of fourteen nights they are to spend there goes smoothly.

The conflict begins later, with a simple comment.

Minerva isn’t the only one startled by the words, it seems, because both Duck and his younger sister Jane immediately groan as if in pain. Duck’s face blotches pink and Jane laughs as if the topic is an exasperating sort of funny; Eleanor Newton sets her hands on her hips and says, “You can’t expect me not to be excited, Jane, this is the first lady Wayne’s brought to meet us.” 

Duck turns even redder, interrupts further argument with a loud, “Alright!” and runs his hands through his hair in that charming way he does when he’s flustered. Minerva focuses on that instead of the squirming her stomach is doing.

The topic never seems to lie far below the surface of any interaction Minerva has with Duck’s parents, and the days of their visit become peppered with suggestions and questions of a similar nature. Most come from Eleanor, but occasionally her husband will step in. James is more subtle about it; he makes a quiet remark from somewhere next to Minerva and smiles at her as if they’re sharing a joke. His hands fold together and he nods sagely as they watch Duck’s ‘niblings’ rush around the yard, chuckling, “They’re life’s biggest blessing.” 

There’s an appraising look in his eyes when he adds, “Wayne’d make a good father.”

Courtesy demands she maintain allegiance to the opinions of Duck’s elderly parents, and Minerva does agree, but she cannot find it in her to respond with more than a nod. The children of Jane are young yet – Minerva thought them in their forties, but human ages work differently, and Alec announced when he was introduced that he was freshly twelve years old – but they already command the respect and attention of their entire family. The have strong imaginations and boundless energy, and when they tug Duck into their games he goes with so little protest that Minerva can’t help staring. She stands against the railing of the porch watching him, her beer bottle clinking rhythmically against the wood, and fights down the urge to rush in and swing him around like he does the little ones. Duck smiles as brightly as a sun and with all the love in his eyes that she’s used to having pointed her way; he adores his sister’s children, and there’s no attempt to smother the evidence. 

Minerva does her very best to let the topic slide, with polite nods and deflective statements about Duck or the children individually, because letting her mind drift to the subject is dangerous at best. Jane notices her dodging, days later, and confronts her as the family goes indoors for dinner. She catches Minerva’s arm as she’s closing the lid of the barbeque (a fascinating gas-powered broiler for food); Jane’s fingers hook onto her elbow, and Minerva remains carefully still so she doesn’t injure them with her greater strength and a twitch in the wrong direction. Jane is slender and boney where her brother is sturdy and padded, but there’s no less determination in the green eyes Minerva turns to face.

“Don’t let them get under your skin, okay?” Jane says. “They were like this with me and my ex too.” Minerva doesn’t know quite what the idiom means, but she gleans the gist of what Jane is saying, and bows her head in concession. 

Eleanor Newton brings up marriage during the large turkey-based dinner they partake in for the holiday. She lifts a glass made of ‘good china’ aloft and announces her thankfulness of her children’s health and her grandchildren's accomplishments, and winks playfully at Duck when she adds, “And I’m thankful that we might soon be hearing wedding bells for Wayne.” 

Duck throws back his drink quickly, only to sputter on the contents when he registers too late what his mother has said. He bumbles through a refusal of the concept, lies sticking and cracking on his tongue, which is a sure sign he’s been thinking about it. Jane laughs into her own drink and doubles up on a second glass; Minerva claps Duck firmly on the back to clear his lungs. He remains bent over and breathless for long enough that his mother has room to clarify, “She calls you by your actual name, sweetheart, you can’t blame me for suspecting.”

Minerva understands the implications, and respectfully confirms that she would accept a betrothal, though she has little to offer in the way of dowry or respectable title. James Newton and Jane erupt into laughter, and Duck buries his face in his hands, his ears burning red where they’re poking out through his messy hair. Minerva isn’t entirely sure what she’s said wrong, so errs on the side of politeness and bows as much as she can with the table restricting her.

Eleanor waves a hand at her as if the simple formality is too much. She gathers Minerva’s hands in hers and squeezes them with what appears to be delight, saying, “We’ll let Wayne propose properly, hmm?”

Minerva doesn’t know what else an arrangement on Earth might involve, so defers to the wisdom of the present company, who quickly gang up to question Duck on his intentions. She plans to stay by his side whether legally bound or not; when Duck cradles her against his chest as they curl up together in bed that night, she is puzzled only by the parameters of marriage custom, not the commitment itself. Duck’s heart pounds heavily against her ear for long moments before he works up the nerve to ask, “You– you’d be alright with that?”

It is a foolish question, so Minerva leans up on one arm to press kisses across his sternum and neck and cheeks, repeating the gestures until the sheen in his gorgeous eyes becomes less fearful and more shy. She runs a hand through the soft curls of his hair and notches her palm against his throat, where his pulse is strongest and his whiskers scratch and Minerva can best revel in how tangible he is. He meets her with a gentleness so deep she feels she might drown in it.

The comfort of his presence doesn’t stop the nightmares, of course. A lifetime of tragedy doesn’t simply lift from the mind no matter how meditative the owner, nor how distant the cause, and Minerva has been far too distracted by the daily commentary of Duck’s parents to avoid a resurgence of subconscious anxiety. The weight of the blanket becomes the heft of ten feet of stone over her side, and the pillow a pocket of long-desertified earth, stale with the scent of inactivity. Minerva reaches her one free arm out of the coffin of rubble in a desperate attempt to escape, digging with clawed fingers and crying for help into a cavern where only the echo of her voice responds. Part of her accepts the inevitable demise, long overdue and wholly earned. Another part of her remains the determined Councillor, refusing to fall when her people, her soldiers, her Chosen are still standing and fighting and in need of her aid. The weakest part of her, nearly dead under the weight of the mantle, is pure terrified child, certain she’s been left behind to die by greater and older members of the Order.

It’s a pained cry that wakes her, one in far too familiar a voice. Minerva registers far too slowly that Duck has his fingers wrapped around hers and is desperately trying to pry them out of his stomach. She throws herself backwards and rips her hand away, only to lean forward again with terror as Duck fails to uncurl. She yanks him onto his back with the unoffending hand (numb from being pinned under the pillow, made weaker, safer), and leans over him with ice running rampant paths through her bloodstream.

“Duck Newton, Duck Newton!” she barks, pressing her hand into her abdomen as she watches him cradle his own. Her voice cracks on the sound, lamentations easing only when the harsh crease in Duck’s forehead does. 

“Breathe, Minnie,” he rasps, squinting up at her with watery eyes, and Minerva realizes suddenly that the image of him is swimming before her. His hand reaches to cup her cheek and she falls into it with relief, then folds forward to press her forehead to his, desperate to feel the movement of his breath on her lips. “Y’caught me off guard, s’all.”

Duck eventually permits her shaking hands to inspect him, and Minerva finds a vicious bruise around his navel when she lifts his wrinkled tee shirt out of the way. She dares not touch the marks her grasping hand has dug in his flesh, but smoothes her thumbs around it, anguished at the damage and incapable of letting it be. Duck lays still and relaxed under her hands, and Minerva feels sick at the clear display of trust. His wide hands come to rest over hers in a soft act of reassurance.

“Wanna tell me about it?” he says suddenly, soft as a whisper, and one brown eye squints up at her in the darkness. “Must’ve been some dream.”

Minerva decidedly does not. She knows Duck will respect her wishes if she declines, but the bruises on his stomach are dark despite their recent infliction, and the guilt is a strong enough motivator to drag words from her throat. Minerva leans back, folded onto her knees in as formal a position as she can manage on the old mattress they’re sharing; Duck sits up and takes her hand to tug her closer; she allows the contact but refuses the space he makes for her along his side. She tells him all that she can about her dream, though in the stiff way one might offer up a status report of a lost section of empire, and finishes with another apology. 

The long look he gives her says he knows there’s more to her upset than the contents of her nightmare, but Duck is a man of the forest, and has learned the patience of beings who live far longer than he. He understands Minerva far better than she would like to admit, and seems to sense her uneasiness. Instead of trying to guide her back into resting, he climbs off the mattress and offers to make them breakfast.

The sun has yet to rise, and the rest of the family sleeps on. Minerva helps cut vegetables for an omelette and slowly sinks into her thoughts while Duck yawns his way around the kitchen, carefully setting out plates and a skillet. 

She would gladly marry this man if the offer were accordingly given, Minerva thinks, because there would be no greater merit on her wreck of a life than to have his love pledged to it. Yet… she wonders what she offers back, what support she provides to Duck that he could not find elsewhere. The suggestions of his parents skitter through the back of her mind like the echoes of her own voice in the empty temples of Five, and grow stronger with each reprise. They whittle away at her confidence like a carver’s knife to wood. She must pause in her work for too long watching the gashes appear, because Duck calls, “You good, hon?” 

He is a wonder among the near two hundred years she’s lived. Minerva looks at him from across the dim room, at the way he’s messily framed in the light of the stove, at the disheveled nest his hair has woven into and the patchy beard that cradles the soft curve of his jaw, and her heart aches. He steps forward reflexively when she reaches for him, and his hands are warm on her hips as she bends to take his lips.

Minerva maintains two fears in her new life on Earth, now that her destined quest is fulfilled, and they are these: losing Wayne Newton, and being trusted with offspring.

During their first tour in the Amazon, Duck had told her he planned to create a world that the children of their children could enjoy. He had said the words as if they didn’t carry a heaviness a black hole would envy, as though parenthood was a natural progression of his life and a reliable conclusion to the partnership they had fallen into. Minerva had held his hand tightly and said nothing, because she was too fervently adoring him to contradict the concept, and too in awe at the passion in his words to cut them down. She had never seen such seriousness in his eyes, and such drive towards a greater purpose than his own happiness. But a violent fear had manifested in her then, one she had been safely pushing aside for years, only to have drawn out of her like a kicking and screaming infant in the expectant words of his parents.

Minerva suspects her own parents would have nothing positive to say on the subject, had they lived – she did not know them well enough to say what they would think of her coupling with an alien, but Minerva had held the lives of the last of her species in her hands and watched each one succumb to an early, unwarranted death. She had not given as a provider should, nor sacrificed herself as a leader might. Minerva clearly was not meant for caretaking, and the idea that she should be expected to provide children for Duck eats at her with a terror unlike anything ever has.

“He’s so good with them,” Jane says later, nodding towards her brother as he wanders the path ahead with her son and child, tapping tree trunks with his fingertips and quizzing the little ones on their names. Minerva concedes that he is, and says nothing to reveal her concerns. She cannot – will not – be a mother to his children, nor to any, and prays that will not be the factor to separate them after every other challenge life has thrown their way. 

To her dismay, parenthood seems to be a concept intertwined with marriage on Earth, and so Minerva is exposed more and more often to the two subjects over the week they spend with Duck’s family. His parents cannot seem to help themselves from making suggestions, or pointing out how lovely it would be for Alec and Kit to have cousins, and on one opportunity Minerva even catches herself following along with the observation that the genes she and Duck carry would produce beautiful children. She quickly tears the mental image down and lets the ravenous dogs of her fear rip it to shreds, then excuses herself to practice martial arts.

They’re a comforting standby, even bearing their source – Minerva has been drilling the combat forms of the Atraxin Order for nearly as long as she has been standing upright, and the flow of movements she spins through in the backyard allow her to soak her mind in a calming pool of motion after motion. She winds through the sequences on autopilot, miming with an invisible weapon when she turns to the sword forms (Leo Tarkesian has been guarding her blade, and it rests reverently on the wall of his living room, next to his). She closes her eyes for the last few strikes of one of the last forms the masters taught her before war consumed them, and registers a shout from Duck just as her arm comes down in a sweeping blow. 

She freezes, blinks, and finds Jane’s youngest, Kit, standing in front of her, cowering in anticipation of her strike. Their arms are thrown up over their head. Duck rushes in to grab at them as Minerva startles backwards, quickly making room and removing herself from such an offensive position. Duck crouches down in front of the child, his arm scrunched tightly in their sleeve.

“Aunt Minerva moves like a freight train when she’s practicin’, okay, you can’t– don’t go jumpin’ in front of her like that, that’s how you get yourself hurt,” he says, and Minerva feels herself stiffen. Duck is correct, of course, she’s a dangerous opponent and bears greater strength than any human she has yet encountered. It goes against her morals to strike at a child, or anyone truly weaker than she, and the situation is obviously accidental. But there’s no denying the example it sets – Minerva is too great a threat to be trusted with Jane’s children, and she shudders to imagine what havoc she could cause with someone younger and more fragile. The moment becomes another strong line on the list for why she cannot entertain the idea of caring for her own offspring.

Upset builds to a great flood within the cavity of her chest, and with an apologetic bow and promise to keep her eyes open next time, Minerva takes off before the dam holding it back can break.

She half expects Duck to chase after her, if only to reprimand her lack of manners, but Minerva’s feet pound a solo beat on the gravel driveway and down the hill. The broken asphalt that leads her towards the Greenbrier River is a path empty of company. She doesn’t have a plan for where she’s going, but the countryside of West Virginia seems to be little more than trees in most places, and there’s nowhere Minerva could travel that would be too dangerous for her to return from. 

She follows the babble of the river for a ways, racing the current and using the leaves that ride it like tiny ships to mark her progress. Before long she finds herself passing along the highway sign for Kepler, spray painted on one side with images of striped insects. When she comes to the former wreckage of the Nest of Hornets, still laying fallow beside their newly-constructed base, she scales the rubble. The boulders that tumbled off the mountain during its destruction become obstacles meant for climbing, and the iron beams of lampposts she finds sticking out of the ruins prove useful for swinging from. She eschews the clearer roads on the other side of the river and instead boulders her way along the path of destruction the fallen mountain built, now overlaid with greenery. Dried leaves of nearby trees have wedged between the rocks, but squirm free and scatter in her wake. 

Minerva follows the self-imposed obstacle course without mind for how long she’s been travelling, and the focus she has to pay to where her feet are landing helps free her mind from its frantic cycles of thought. The panic follows her, but lags behind in the challenge. Minerva has clambered her way nearly to the topside of town when the headlights of a vehicle flash her way. She rises and turns towards the road, and spots a battered old truck, gleaming in the dim light of the cloudy sunset. The door swings open, and the driver waves at her.

“What cryptid’re you, then?” shouts Madeline Cobb, leaning on the junction between the door and the windshield, and in the pause Minerva realizes she’s panting from the exertion of her climb. She wipes a forearm up over her head to clear the dripping sweat, and starts descending down towards the road. The woman known as ‘Mama’ has a gruff exterior, but she’s become a familiar face over the years, and there’s a warmth behind her sarcasm. Her smile grows as Minerva arrives within speaking distance, and she says, “Lookin’ pretty beat, there, Minerva. You had dinner?”

Minerva shakes her head, and that seems to be all the prompting Mama needs to hustle her into the vehicle. Though she understands it to be against the law, Minerva opts to sit in the wide flatbed of the truck, where the breeze their drive creates can better cool her. She leans against the back window and stretches her legs out in the dusty compartment, letting the familiar movement soothe her; in the rainforest, volunteers were regularly transported by truck from planting site to basecamp, though the saplings she rode with bore a different scent than the pine of the forest here. Mama keeps the sliding window between them open so Minerva can hear the cassette tape she has playing, and thankfully doesn’t ask about why she’s in the area at all.

The Lodge proves quiet, perhaps due to the time of day or the holiday just past, and Minerva is grateful for her luck. Mama hangs her duster up as they enter and asks, “You’re stayin’ with Duck’s parents, yeah? Where’re they livin’, now? I’ll look ‘em up in the phone book and let them know you’re here.”

If she finds anything odd about the gentle refusal Minerva gives, she says nothing about it. Minerva escapes with a quiet thank you, and wanders the familiar, unlit corridors of the Lodge to get to the communal bathing room that leads to the springs. She goes through the routine of cleaning away the sweat and silt of her climb with numb motions; she lived at the Lodge before she and Duck began travelling, and so doesn’t have to be told about the finicky nozzle on the shower or the sputtering the pipes do when they’ve been left alone for too long. 

Minerva is glad she thought to keep a towel wrapped around herself for politeness when she settles into one of the hot springs, even if the sensation of it underwater is strange, because Mama joins her some time later. Her hair is bundled up on top of her head in a quick, messy bun, and there’s an uncharacteristic fluffy housecoat hugging her shoulders. She leaves it beside the spring in favour of a dark floral bathing suit, and enters the pool with a long groan. 

The Lodge is empty and the woods still, and Mama must grow tired of the silence, because she eventually lifts her head off the wooden rim of the pool and hums, “So. Ain’t my place to pry, but I might have a manhunt to prepare for depending on your answer – is Duck hurtin’ you, honey?”

Minerva spins to look at her so quickly that miniature tsunami rises with the motion and sloshes violently over the other side of the spring. Mama might be slouched down into the pool like any other carefree bather, but there’s an intense set to her eyes and the clench of her jaw; it’s a look Minerva has seen many times in faces of warriors. The threat of violence simmers under her casual tone like the deep core of magma under the hot spring. 

“Wayne Newton may be strong, but I would have no trouble neutralizing him in a fight,” Minerva says, but the tension in Mama’s body language doesn’t disperse when she snorts.

“Yeah, I believe that. It’s not always a physical hurt, though.” She props an arm along the wall and hangs off the wrist with her opposite hand. Though she moves no closer, Minerva can’t help feeling like they’re suddenly tucked into a much tighter bubble of conversation. Mama’s voice is low, and barely echoes in the cooling air. “Just strikes me as a little odd that you’re in the woods runnin’ yourself ragged with no man in sight, couple days after you fly in to meet his family, and you don’t want him to know where you’re at.” She raises a finger and gently points. “I ain’t known you to be quiet, and I haven’t seen a smile on your face all night. Somethin’s wrong.”

Minerva is still for a long while, and Mama waits out her silence without judgement. The hot water goes cool against the dread in Minerva’s bloodstream, and she does her very best not to fidget under the weight of the words left hanging in the air. She cannot blame Mama for her assumptions, given the evidence, but the idea that Duck could be ever considered a threatening person, and moreover that he would ever cause intentional harm, scrunches her insides into knots. Of the two of them, he has never been an instigator, or a villain. She wonders what impression her actions have given, that someone would see danger in the presence or words of Duck Newton.

“If there is someone to blame for harm,” she says, as the nausea rises through her throat and shoves the words out, “Then it is me, Madeline Cobb. I endangered one of his kin and injured him in my sleep. I– I will inevitably fail the requirements of marriage on this planet because I cannot– I refuse to comply with the expectation of childbearing, for the good of everyone involved.”

Mama sighs, the sound of it long and relieved, and there’s a visible shift in her body language; gone is the prickling anger that surrounded her like a cloud. A gentle half-smile works its way across her lips, and one of her eyebrows rises slowly up towards her hairline.

“Duck asked you to marry him?”

“His parents offered, and I confirmed my interest.” The quiet huff of smothered laughter that comes from the other side of the pool has Minerva frowning. “I did warn them that I would not bring economic value to the union.”

Mama lifts a hand from the water to wipe at her forehead, and grins up at the sky, murmuring, “God, that’s cute. That ain’t exactly how marriages work ‘round here anymore, Minerva. Nobody’s gonna be askin’ you to get hitched for money’s sake.”

Minerva nods, accepting the cultural difference and logging it away for future reference. Then she realizes there won’t _be_ any future reference, because she can’t follow through on a union if there’s childrearing to be had on the other side. She ducks lower in the water, hoping to burn the ache in her heart out with the scalding wash of the spring. Mama taps her fingers on the wood planks that make up the pool seating, her eyes turned thoughtfully out to the woods.

“So you’re worried about havin’ kids?” she asks, and Minerva resists the urge to blow petulant bubbles in the water. 

“Duck Newton’s parents continue to imply their desire for grandchildren, and I cannot meet their expectations.”

“Figures,” Mama snorts, and there’s something in her tone that suggests both exasperation and humour. “Parents love doin’ that sort of thing. Do they know you ain’t from around here? You told ‘em that might not even work?” 

Minerva startles at the words, and adds another problem to her mental list – she has no idea how vastly her own anatomy might differ from that of humans, though Duck has never said anything during their times together to make her self-conscious of the fact. As far as she is aware, Miralivaxian anatomy is strikingly similar to Earthlings’; Minerva curiously side-eyes the shape of her friend, but gleans nothing through the rippling water and masking bathing suit. Even where they might externally appear the same, there’s no promise that their genetic makeups would be compatible, or that Minerva’s body could sustain such a deviation to what it was designed for, even were she to release the preventative weave of energy she uses to inhibit pregnancy.

“You have likewise been accosted?” Minerva asks, realizing she knows very little of any partnership Mama may have ever had, or whether she has borne children of her own. If humans truly are as similar to Miralivaxians as they appear, she’s theoretically capable. Mama’s smile drops and her tongue pushes against the inside of her cheek as she mulls over an answer.

“Parents love doin’ that sorta thing,” she repeats with a shrug, and leans back against the wall of the spring with a brighter, more thoughtful look on her face. “Ain’t always how it works, though. You wonderin’ why everybody calls me ‘Mama’?”

“I assumed it was a term of endearment.”

“You ain’t wrong. Got any guesses who started it?” Minerva shakes her head, and Mama smiles as if the heat of the springs has travelled up through her body and found a way to present itself on her face. “Jake. That little bugger got himself dumped over on Earth’s side of the gate when he wasn’t more than a punk kid outta diapers. Had a whole big family back in Sylvain and none of ‘em did anything much to stop him from gettin’ exiled. Little kid like that.” 

There’s a pause as fondness and anger battle across Mama’s features. 

“He didn’t take it well, no surprise. Barclay and I had a time chasin’ him around the first few months, gettin’ him to keep his bracelet on and quit makin’ scenes. Got him back to the Lodge late one night after a close call with the local law, and the poor kid cried himself to sleep. Must've scared him straight, 'cause that was the last of it. That mornin' he starts kickin’ around the kitchen like he owns the place, and next thing I know I’m hearin’, ‘Hey mama, can I eat this?’" Mama laughs, her gaze going half-lidded as the memory resurfaces. "I look over, and the kid’s standing in front of the fridge, struck still as a squirrel. He was some red, Minerva. I figure it’s as good an olive branch as we’re gonna get, so I yell back, ‘Sure thing, baby,'" she glances up, grinning, “And Barclay refused to let it die.”

“It seems appropriate,” Minerva says. “You provided a home and family for the exiles of Sylvain, and asked for nothing in return. That is an objective form of caretaking.”

“That’s the thing though, right?” Mama says, looking at Minerva pointedly. “Jake didn’t go back to Sylvain ‘cause he didn’t want nothin’ to do with the parents that left him to beef it over here. But – Minerva, don’t you dare say nothin’ to anybody ‘bout this – but that kid means the world to me, same as the rest of the sylphs. And if he wants to call me 'mama', then I guess that makes me one.”

“And if I–” Minerva starts, and the words catch in her throat like the dry, dusty air of Five once did, “If I do not want anyone calling me mother, Madeline Cobb?” 

A hand reaches to pat her shoulder, and though the gesture is meant as comforting it is far too reminiscent of the grip of Minerva's past teachers. It presses down on her back, warning her that things are meant to be done in a very specific way, and she would be wise not to go against the rules. The familiar breath of duty hisses at the back of her neck, its proximity sending cold lines of sweat down her spine. Minerva remains still.

“That’s somethin’ you gotta talk to Duck about, hon,” Mama says, and watches her for a long moment. Her hand eventually falls back into the pool, and Minerva washes the shivers on her neck away with water from her cupped palms. She must be spending too much time in the presence of Duck’s blatant inability to lie, because the stoicism she once possessed seems easily seen past, and Mama gently suggests, “You come on in when you’re ready and I’ll have us some supper ready, alright?”

Minerva lets herself sink into the spring until it nearly envelopes her, trusting buoyancy to hold the weight of her body and wondering if she would prefer it let her drown. It feels foolish being so caught up in such a simple conflict when she’s handled far worse in her lifetime – there are no great losses to be had here. If the topic of offspring rules out marriage, then the only true consequence will be her removal from partnership with Wayne Newton. Minerva ducks her head under the water to push back the heat building in her eyes, and firmly reminds herself that she is not owed his loyalty. If this decision mandates they go separate ways, then she will do the responsible thing.

She climbs out of the spring with heavy limbs and a tiredness beyond what the warmth usually bestows, and shucks on loaned clothes (probably Barclay’s, since they’re closest in size) after a quick cold rinse in the sputtering shower. The tee shirt rides tight around her upper chest and arms, but she’s grateful for the room it allows around her squirming stomach. True to her word, Mama has laid out two bowls of hot stew and crumbly toasted bread on one of the smaller dining tables by the windows that frame the great room. Large spoons and napkins are piled between the dishes for each of them. Mama comes around the corner as Minerva shows up, drying her hands on a dishtowel, and nods towards the food.

“You had bo kho before? Barclay’s been all about these import goods since Cassandra opened up that ritzy farmer’s market thing by the highway. I dunno how to feel about it, myself.” She settles at the table and takes a large bite out of her bread, and thankfully doesn’t mention the wilted way Minerva is standing or the lack of enthusiasm in her voice as she concedes that the flavours will be new to her. Mama seems to understand their previous conversation needs no expansion, so they sit and chatter about other things instead – the strange tourists Mama’s seen in the Lodge over the summer, the fine details of stories Minerva wrote home about from Brazil. Mama fishes a pen out of her pocket and scribbles notes on a napkin as the topic turns to Minerva's second drafted novel on ecology and conservation of the rainforest. By the end of the hour, the chilly caverns of Minerva’s heart are beginning to feel warm again.

The phone rings from down the hall just as Minerva dunks her hands in the kitchen sink to start washing up their bowls, and Mama’s answers echo up from the main hall in a placating, "You can quit your panicking, now, she's here with me." Minerva knows who it must be, and presses a flood of anxiousness in her chest down; she jolts as the fork in her hand crunches against the bottom of the sink, and she finds it bent at a sharp angle when she lifts it back out from under the suds. 

“Yeah, I’ll grab her for you,” Mama says, and Minerva begins her walk of shame out to where the phone rests. Mama hands her the receiver with her palm cupped over the mouthpiece, and gives her a silent gesture with her eyebrows that conveys her support. Minerva awkwardly fidgets with the bouncy coiled cord that connects the phone to its stand. Her heart does a backflip in her chest the moment she hears Duck’s breathing on the other end; when she announces herself and he speaks, Minerva has to clench her eyes shut to steady the wave of affection that nearly keels her over.

“Hey, Minnie,” her partner murmurs, with the kind of tenderness normally reserved for their most private moments, the words gravelly with worry. “You doin’ alright?”

“I am well,” she manages.

“Did you– you ran all the way to Topside?”

“I climbed. The rubble of Mount Kepler has proven to be a most challenging obstacle course, Wayne Newton.” She forces whatever enthusiasm she can into her words, and a wavering false smile curves the sides of her mouth. She stares off down the hall, imagining she still has the distance of several million lightyears separating her from the person on the other end of the conversation, and the forced delight comes easier. “As a method of training it is tiring but wholly worth the effort.”

“You, uh–” There’s a shuffling noise on the other end that she’s certain is Duck fidgeting himself, likely scratching a finger along a nearby surface or ruffling his already messy, overgrown hair. He has it shorn short every time they return to town, but it always grows like a plant in the heat of the Amazon, and Minerva’s grown fond of the way the lengths of it curl around her fingers. “Hey, did, uh– what made you wanna… that’s a long way to go. The end of the rubble is… that’s like fifteen miles from here.”

“Perhaps if you ran more often, you would not be so appalled at the distance,” she jokes reflexively. Minerva bites down on the smile that threatens to take over her face and curses her weakness. She cannot afford to let herself be affectionate when she may yet have to remove herself from Duck’s company. He's too loyal to turn away from her, but she should not encourage his interest when someone else could provide better for him. The last thing Minerva wants is for Duck to spend his years (his shorter, more limited years) wanting for something she refuses to give. The solemn realization ties ropes around her momentary amusement, and the nervous waver in Duck’s voice becomes the cinderblock that tows her back under the sea of despair.

“Minerva, is something wrong?” he says, immediately cursing under his breath and bumbling in that endearing way he does when he’s nervous. “Look, I– did someone– if my parents said somethin’ that offended you I wanna know, alright? I don’t think they’re really gonna get the alien thing, but if you wanna– we can tell ‘em, if that’s–” 

“Wayne,” she says gently, heart aching, and tangles her fist in the phone cord, “I am not angry with you.”

The frustrated sigh on the other end rebuts her words, and Minerva hates for a blink of a moment how well Duck reads her. She was a master of subtlety on Five, when leading a military front meant keeping a perfect presence of control, but humans treat body language differently, and Duck has always watched her with such a close eye. She should be flattered, perhaps, that he can pick out the anguish in her voice no matter how well smothered, or how far away. 

“I don’t wanna do this over the phone,” Duck says, and Minerva’s heart sinks into the hard acid of her stomach, already devastated at the incoming task. She had hoped for a few hours to meditate and rest, to steady herself before the inevitable confrontation. But experience has taught her that events rarely move at the pace most desired, and that the most difficult opponents are often the quickest to strike. Minerva swallows her churning emotions and nods in acceptance. “I’m gonna be there in– I dunno, fuck, half an hour? That alright?”

Minerva barely manages a, “Yes,” before the softly spoken, “Alright, love you,” and click of the phone meeting its cradle on the other end make her legs weak with dread. It's almost funny how much of an impact Duck has on her, when for a hundred years Minerva was the most unflappable leader, a paragon of stoicism. There are perhaps three things that have ever made Minerva so unbalanced as she is now – the actions she took against a sister planet, the wormhole jump she made from Five to Earth, and the night she let herself fall for Wayne Newton. She loathes to think that the streak, so suddenly turned towards the positive, might revert back to a record of tragedies.

There’s very little for her to do while she waits than be restless. Minerva doesn’t want to float in the springs again and let her thoughts simmer in its heat, but neither can she trust herself to start running the perimeter of the Lodge to burn off her nervous energy, because her feet could so easily take her far afield, nipped at the heels by the hounds of fear. Mama catches her pacing the room, running over the potential conversation in her head in as many different variant ways as she can, as if the incoming storm of emotion is something she can learn to parry like physical blows. By the time the human woman gets a grip on Minerva’s arm and suggests maybe she go cut up some wood out back or something, the unmistakable crinkle of gravel under the press of car tires is already settling the issue.

Often when Minerva is reminded of Five, her heart trips all over itself, fumbling between happiness and anguish. The crunching footsteps and huff of breath as Duck stomps his way up to the Lodge have the same effect, and she leans heavily into the doorframe of the porch as Mama goes to open the door. She greets Duck as if there’s nothing strange about him rolling up to the Lodge in his father’s borrowed truck in the late hours of the evening, and for his part he does make an effort to be friendly in return. There’s a tightness to the wrinkles around his eyes and the fleeting smiles he gives, though, as if the gestures are a burden to wear.

Mama waves him in and immediately moves behind the check-in counter to fish out the keys for ‘their’ room, the suite at the far end of the Lodge, circled by the treeline. This is the first visit they’ve stayed with Duck’s parents in Huntersville – every previous return to the country had been to Kepler, and graciously they’d been given residence without charge. In the same way the the sylphs who lived at the Lodge had their own established rooms, long since decorated with personal items, so now too did Minerva and Duck. But Duck shoves his hands in his pockets when Mama comes back around and offers them to him, and instead turns to look at his partner.

“What d’y’think, honey?” he says, catching Minerva’s eyes for the first time, and Minerva already can’t bear the hesitant look he’s giving her or the cautious round to his shoulders. His gaze is critical and worried, and the idea of leading him to a room they’d made their own and decisively cutting their relationship apart feels far too merciless to act on. Minerva considers the alternative, and decides that she can manage an act that goes a little longer – a night of sleep still wrapped in his arms will become the swan song she can let lull her when she becomes wistful. She’ll tuck away the warm, beloved memory of Duck alongside those of the best friend she lost to war and the home she lost to a meteor, and give herself the small mercy of a moment’s peace now. Minerva straightens her posture and forces the burning in her chest to become an inviting smile on her face. Duck’s eyes scour her curiously, and not with the strongest belief.

“I think I may have left a bad impression on your family, Duck Newton,” she says, and every chipper note bouncing through the words feels fake on her tongue. “You have my most sincere thanks for the company and care, Madeline Cobb, but it would be wiser to return and offer apologies.”

“It’s ‘Mama’,” the Lodge owner corrects, but shrugs and sets the keys atop the counter with a yawn. Her housecoat is once again draped over her, and the informality of her clothes suggest she’s been interested in her own bed for some time, but was waiting on Duck’s arrival to retire. Minerva doesn’t know what time it is, and suspects she’s overstayed the offer of an attentive audience, but Mama gives her a gentle pat on the arm anyway. “In case you change your mind, side door’s always open.”

Mama flips them a lazy wave and moves back indoors and down the hall – the Lodge is dim and quiet at this hour, with the last of the logs in the hearth bathing the room in a hazy glow and flicking spots of fire onto the glass dome of the ceiling. Duck stands watching Minerva like a long-established tree in the path of a chainsaw, considering but not judgmental, and unknowing of the danger she presents. Minerva stares back at him as firmly as she can, willing a hardness to her spine. His brown eyes meet hers with a warmth that feels like home.

Minerva clenches her jaw as a threat to her stuttering heart and strides towards the door. If Duck finds anything strange about his partner passing him by in favour of crouching in the porch to put on her shoes, he says nothing to reveal it. Minerva rubs her hands together in preparation for the chill outdoors, having been removed from her warmer clothes, and Duck eyes her over as she explains, “I did not have a jacket with me. I would have been much too warm with all the running, but I regret having not brought one now! It’s alright, though, I shall just make swiftly for the vehicle!”

“Mama’s probably got one you could borrow, hon.”

Minerva waves a hand, already ducking out into the black night, and her breath rises in front of her as fine mist as she says, “I will not impose on her further!”

Duck hovers behind her as if he’s trying to wait her out, his steps unrushed against her hurried ones and hands comfortably shoved in his pockets. Minerva hustles into the passenger's side of the two door pickup truck, and busies herself adjusting the headrest and the distance of the chair from the dash. Her fingers tremble with the motion, but she chooses to blame the shake on the nip of the autumn air and not the nervous energy running frantic currents through her. The climate in Kepler is always so much cooler than Five was, and so much crisper than the swaddling humidity of the Amazon Rainforest.

She suspects Duck is either nervous of her, upset with her, or just waiting out her inevitable confession, as if it’s a tidal wave on the horizon he’s accepted the incoming rush of. He settles himself into the driver's seat with a grunt, and gives the vehicle a second to idle before shifting the large clutch between them and setting the truck into a slow path back down the hill. The gravel presses under the tires like a mocking chorus of laughter; Minerva firmly sets her gaze to the illuminated road instead of to the sideways glances Duck is giving her.

She nearly jumps when his hand slips over her fingers and squeezes. She clenches back, too tightly, and flashes him a smile; Duck frowns even more deeply at her, his eyebrows pressed so firmly together they look as though they might fuse. 

“Kit’s okay,” he says slowly, voice low and rasping and far too loud in the enclosed space, and he glances out at the road only momentarily before seeking her out again. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

Minerva takes the prompt as an opportunity for deflection, and assumes an expression of regret she once wore daily, when hearing out the pleas and concerns of Miralivaxians on the front lines of interplanetary war. A sad smile barely stretches her cheeks as she says, “I am glad to hear they’re uninjured. You know as well as I that the results of that interaction could have been… bad.”

“Yeah,” Duck says, with a soft, humourless laugh. “Humans aren’t super sturdy. ‘Specially not little ones. But– Minerva, I– I trust you, y’know that, right? I had to chew Kit out there so they wouldn’t try that shit again, but I know you’d never hurt’m.”

“I understand, Duck,” she replies, resisting the urge to twine her fingers more closely with his. He refuses to let go, and in fact his thumb starts rubbing a firm path over the back of her hand, rubbing at the tattoo long since buried there. He allows a silence, and Minerva’s head settles back into the rest; her eyes fall on the incoming pocks in the road as they slowly descend the mountainside, and she lets the repetitive sight lull her eyes into a lack of focus. Her brain starts to follow the effort, edging towards a meditation that might finally let her heart rest.

“I, uh– I asked Jane what she thought about tellin’ our parents where you’re from,” Duck starts again, and Minerva nearly grimaces against a swell of affection. He’s always been a worrier, and somehow senses that her sour mood remains; Duck is wiping the slate clear of whatever ails he can think of, certain that by trial and error he’ll find what’s truly made Minerva upset. She loves him for it – it’s a method Duck has employed on multiple occasions to soothe over disruptions in their partnership, to whittle away at her reflexive compartmentalization until she willingly told him the truth. There are nightmares Minerva never would have managed without being urged to speak them aloud, and rifts in their communication that perhaps would only have split wider had Duck not taken the first steps to identify the cause. Minerva finds the trait endearing and clever, most of the time – today she wishes he would hold himself back, and let her hide her decision just a little longer. 

“What was her opinion?” Minerva asks, because the topic is on the table now and her wisest move is to prompt it. If she responds with more enthusiasm this time, she may yet deflect the situation.

“I figure they just won’t get it. She thinks they’re gonna take ‘alien’ as meaning ‘from another country’. Off chance they believe it, my old man’d probably try to call the FBI or somethin’, but Janey and I’ve been unpluggin’ the phones since we were kids, so there’s options for dodging that immediate bullet. Could always get Stern to come in all official-like and tell him off, I guess.”

“Your father knows me to be non-threatening,” Minerva says, biting down the part of her that wants to add, ‘despite nearly killing his son in my sleep and his grandchild the following day’. 

“That’s not really the point, y’know? People get weird about stuff they don’t understand.” Duck’s hand folds a little tighter into hers. “You know that’s– I haven’t told them or– or other people ‘round town ‘cause I don’t want you gettin’, like, taken away. Strapped up in some kinda FBI armoured truck and locked up in Area 51. They’d have a hell of a time catching you, I know, and–” he snorts, “I’d go after you, fuck, but I’d really rather not deal with that. But yeah, that’s the only reason we’re not advertising it, y’know? There’s nothin’ bad about you bein’ what you are, and I’m proud I get to– that you’re with me.” 

Minerva’s heart seizes in her chest, and her free hand digs into the side of her seat cushion. She forces a calmness into the arm Duck holds. His voice, meanwhile, grows stronger in its conviction, and the warmth in his voice has her falling to pieces.

“Havin’ you home with me– I didn’t, uh– never thought too hard about meeting someone and settling down or whatever, so it’s– it’s been good, Minerva. There’s nobody else I’d wanna be with. My parents and Jane and the kids all think the world of you, and shit, I– I know mom was bein’ a lot there with the whole, uh, marryin’ thing, but I figure– maybe I can’t tell everyone about how we met or where you’re from, but bein’ able to be with you is– I dunno how I got this lucky.”

The road below the tires has switched from gravel to pavement and lends a buzzing chorus to Duck’s words – he stares out at the hill with a fond smile, and as the faint light from the odometer reflects up into his brown eyes, they glimmer like earth streaked with gold. His warm hand is the single anchor point to which Minerva is tethered; she clenches hard on the point of contact in a desperate attempt to stay abreast of the sea of anguish in her chest, and breathes in to steady herself.

Duck’s head whips her way as her inhale turns strangled before it fills her lungs, and the sudden fervent worry in the lines of his face sends her head back underwater. Minerva forces her fingers wide to try and release the grip between them; Duck holds fast. 

“Duck Newton, I cannot continue to stay by your side because of the demands of the position that I formerly had not realized were included and it is paramount that if you trust me as much as you say that you understand–” She heaves for another breath, spitting the sentence out like so many gallons of seawater; the words tear rifts in her throat and the salt has them burning. “–I have been reminded repeatedly by your mother and father that there are expectations to marriage and partnership as a whole that I cannot make good on–”

“Hey, hey, slow down, Minerva, slow down,” Duck pleads, and the vehicle grows quiet as his foot lifts off the gas and their momentum slows. His eyes dart back and forth from the winding hill to her face, and his fingers have gone white where he’s holding her hand. “What are you– my parents said something to you? What happened?”

“–and I cannot– they have insisted this, Duck, please, you must _listen_ , they have stressed their expectations of me as a partner to you and I cannot fulfill that role and if I do not part with you here then I fear you will be making a great mistake because you–”

“Minerva. What–?” Duck swings the truck into a lookoff point midway down the hill, where the distant streetlights and house lights from homes in Kepler glimmer among the leaves like stars left on the wrong side of the atmosphere. Minerva quickly tears her hand away as Duck releases his grip on her to shift the vehicle into park. Beyond her rambling she can hear him reposition himself, and she tilts away from the palm reaching for her cheek. “It’s isn’t up to them what–”

“Duck Newton, please!” she shouts, “You must _focus_! I will not explain this over again, and it is important you understand that it is not your fault but my own, and a choice I must make for your sake. I cannot continue to be your partner, not when it– not when I will cause you detriment!”

“What the fuck are– what do you _mean?”_ A forced, confused bark of laughter leaves his lungs, and Duck’s hands hover just out of reach of her. “Did you pick that line up from television?”

With all possibility of a reasonable conversation thrown straight out the window, Minerva struggles to compose herself – her heart aches for this simple, sweet human man, who refuses to take her frantic words seriously. The baffled look Duck stares her down with suddenly starts swimming in her vision, and she reels back from the soft approach he tries to make, throwing herself out the door and into the night.

Minerva distances herself from the truck as its engine cuts, but she makes it only to the railing of the overlook before she realizes she has no idea where her feet are trying to take her. Duck clambers out behind her with a clunk and slam of a metal door, and Minerva does her best to collect the mess of her thoughts and reconstitute what articulation she once had. The arguments she practiced with herself at the Lodge fall out of her head as if it were a sieve; she stares out at the black sky and lets the pinpoint light of one star stare her down like the gazes of her old teachers, urging her to pull her emotions back into check. Her hands clench into vibrating fists at her sides, and Minerva forces an inhale through her nose and out between her lips. She turns to face her best friend as he closes in behind her.

“For the sake of your happiness and the welfare of everyone close to you,” she says, formality filling her mouth as the cold ice of loss settles into her blood, “I believe it is in our best interests to separate, Duck Newton.”

He freezes, and the soft, hurt, “What?” that tumbles from his lips becomes a spear, thrust straight into Minerva’s crystallizing chest. The leftover words, those selfish, miserable phrases she refused to confess, tumble out in a rush, suddenly out of her control.

“If marriage on this planet is a commitment meant to be followed by the creation of offspring, Duck Newton, then a union between us and by proxy the relationship that leads up to it is a _mistake_. I am not prepared to take into my hands the life of another creature, especially not one that I– Duck, you must understand this, I cannot be any sort of guardian, nor– nor _parent_ no matter what your inclinations might be, and to keep you with me with that option removed is _cruel_. I would not _embarrass_ you like that, I–”

Minerva grabs for her sternum, fingers digging into flesh as she tries to hold the words in, but they rush from her like compressed air through the hole punctured in her composure, too intense to seal or recapture.

“For as easily as you and our friends have brushed off the knowledge, I am a _murderer_ , Duck, and that is no title for anyone to hold alongside that of a caretaker. I have– there were two planets that I– two _entire civilizations_ that I brought to an end with my arrogance and I do not dare presume that those sins can be wiped clean. What would a child–?!” Something like a laugh tumbles over her tongue, high and raw and strangled. “That is a terrible image! What sort of legacy does a child have to be proud of with a mother who cut down lives of– of children, of _infants_ , Wayne, I delivered a bioweapon and watched it tear apart the minds and bodies of beings too small to know of their own presence!”

The silhouette moving towards her is a dark shadow in a mist of water now, lost to the rapid blinking and heat in her eyes.

“What child could bear that knowledge, that they were born to someone who had committed genocide?! What could I tell someone of my own blood, were I to point out the fading light of the solar system I came from?! That planet no longer exists, those people no longer exist, and that is _my fault_. They would have no heritage because of my actions! They would lack– this is not– Wayne Newton, I do not dare take on this responsibility because I cannot be _trusted_ with it! Because the past has shown clearly that I am much too dangerous– your sister’s child is well, but by _luck!_ You are bruised and not _eviscerated_ solely because I loan you my strength!” 

“Minerva,” comes her favourite voice, as delicately as a prayer spoken into the thinnest air of a mountain peak. The shape of Duck moves closer in the darkness, his arms raised and pace slow and cautious. His steps barely make a sound.

“If–” His approach frightens the sentences off her tongue and leaves Minerva scrambling; she flinches back, a greater coward to Duck’s gentleness than she has ever been to battle. “If I am meant to provide children for you then I– Wayne, I have never loved anything more that you in my entire _life_ but if there is any desire in you to be father then I cannot take that from you, I cannot–”

“Minerva,” says Duck again, and suddenly the soft shape of his jaw and the long arc of his nose and the faint lines across his face that mark him as wise are so close she could touch them. The hands that reach out towards her are slow but deliberate; Minerva moves to shield her face and step away, ashamed, but Duck’s grip is firm. He drags her closer in stages, towing her into the harbour of his embrace like ocean waves do the debris of the sea. 

His brown eyes are glossy with water, and aching as they look her over. The last bastions of argument in Minerva’s chest crumble at the sight; her voice cracks as she tries one last time to push him away.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, baby,” he breathes, and with a stuttering sob Minerva gives in. She collapses forward like a seedling bowing to the sun, desperately inhaling the reassurances. “C’mere.”

She weeps in the ugly way only the devastated do, tearing the peace of the night air apart as if her sorrows are worthy of the entire world’s attention. Minerva is horrified by the sound, and flinches closer to Duck as each one rips through her lungs; he guides her hands under his elbows and murmurs encouragement when she grips at the back of his shirt with strength enough to tear the fabric. The wide bands of his arms encircle her and cup the back of her neck protectively, and his thumb brushes gentle paths along her spine.

Once, long ago, Minerva had let herself submit to the pain of her mistakes. She was the last survivor of Miralivaniax Orbital Body Five, with no place nor purpose to go forward into. The despair of her situation had stuck like a blade in her gut, and left her gasping for air among the sand of her desert home. The universe had felt infinitely pitiless then, and Minerva knew she deserved the punishment – still, selfishly still, she had bent over on her knees and gripped at her own ribs, screaming into the emptiness and desperately pleading for someone to answer. She held herself, because there was no one else to do so. 

The heaving cries she makes into Duck’s shoulder now bounce back to her ears immediately, having finally found a place to refract. The faint peppery smell that marks Duck as himself floods her chest with every gasp, and the softness of his skin pads where she’s pressed her forehead. His shirt collects the spattering mess of tears let loose from her eyes as if each were important, and the damp path they paint in the fabric runs down to where his heart lay hidden. His chest rises and falls in an even pattern meant to lead her back to calmness.

“Nobody’s gonna make you do anything,” Duck says, lips pressed to her ear as if he plans to vent the words down into every reverberating chasm in her body. “You don’t owe anybody– especially not me, Minnie, I’m not–” He exhales heavily and clutches her closer, as if there’s any space between them yet to seal. Minerva burrows deeper into the embrace, her fists trembling violently and practically fused to his shirt. “I can’t undo anything you’ve gone through, and I’m not going to punish you for having done it. I’m here with you now, okay? This– I’m here for whoever and whatever you wanna be now.”

“I don’t want to _prevent_ you from–”

“Minerva,” he says urgently, and the syllables of her name are the teeth of a blade, mercilessly cutting the argument down, “If it’s not with you, I don’t _want_ it.”

The words hit her like a slap. Relief rushes out of Minerva’s body as whimpers and scalding tears, and she curls forward with the force of it. Duck supports her, somehow, waiting out the second flood as if it were a spring rain and his barrel chest were the strong trunk of an oak, willing to catch every drop. 

Like a fool, Minerva had thought rejection to be the worst possible outcome of this confrontation. Duck, in the same way he has patiently explained every other difference between Earth custom and the life Minerva grew up with, has met her instead with absolute benevolence.

Her lips have begun to tingle from her shallow breathing, and Minerva can no longer move air through her nose. Unwinding her fingers from where they’ve calcified against Duck’s back is a task only the most worthy could manage, and she feels much more like a wet leaf plastered to the finely-sculpted lines of a stone masterpiece. She tries to rise, and every muscle that lines her spine shudders with the effort. Minerva wants nothing more than to let herself collapse completely into Duck’s arms and sleep for a thousand years. 

“Wayne,” she rasps, lost for how to express in English how deeply he has understood her needs. She turns to the language she once grew up speaking, the sounds now only she knows. “ _There is no sun that could match your light, Choice of My Heart. How was I fortunate enough to find you?”_

“You’re cursing at me, aren’t you?” Duck jests immediately, rocking the both of them, and an impossible chuckle bubbles up out of her tired chest. Minerva has always adored his ability to make even the most serious moments softer around the edges. There is a strength in his gentleness that she wonders if her people could have ever appreciated, or if they would look down on her for joining with him, unimpressed. It would be another sin to add to her running list, Minerva supposes, if it weren’t a saving grace. 

“Gettin’ pretty cold out here,” Duck hums, rubbing a quick circular pattern on her back. Minerva realizes that she’s shivering in the cool air of the night, and that the warmth of the contact between them is the only source of heat in the blackness. She pries her eyes open and blinks through the speckling water still sticking to her eyelashes, and with a great inhale slowly forces herself to rise. Her fingers refuse to go far without securing themselves on the sides of his shirt, but Duck likewise doesn’t seem to be in a rush to release her. 

“You wanna head home?” he asks, and she chances a look at his face; the view immediately goes blurry. Minerva nods.

They stick close together as they walk back towards the car, their hands firmly knotted and shoulders brushing. Minerva climbs into the truck like a woman infirm, her limbs weak and head pounding. Duck rubs her arm reassuringly before he closes the passenger’s side door, and then he gathers up her fingers once more when he hops back into the driver’s seat. To Minerva’s mild surprise, once the engine has been engaged, Duck backs the truck up and whirls it back up the way they came.

The ride is quiet, and Minerva keeps their folded hands pressed to her sternum the entire way.

The Lodge is dark when they pull back into its parking lot and clamber out, its curtains drawn and only the porch light left on for the nighttime needy. They have no need to wake the owner to re-enter the place, though – they nudge open the unlocked side door and step into the building like two children exploring a haunted house, their fingers knit together and backs hunched as if decreasing their size might make for fewer imposing sounds. Minerva, with her better night vision, leads the way through the storage room and into the main hall. The places where the floorboards creak are dodged based on memory, and Duck snatches up their room keys with a playful grin.

The room has been politely reset to its inn standard, as it always is, but there are quirks to the setup that reveal its ownership – the tea table is still tucked behind the headboard, making it easy to reach when they’re eating snacks and watching television. The pull cord on the blinds still has the large knot tied into it that reminds Minerva how little force it takes to open them. The quilted blanket Minerva had long since designated as hers lays folded across the foot of the bed, and one of Duck’s many pairs of work boots still lays hidden in the corner of the closet. It’s a personalized home behind the faꞔade, and familiarity washes over Minerva like a warm embrace as she steps across the threshold.

“Talk to me,” Duck prompts gently, pulling back the covers on the bed and shucking off his shoes and socks. Minerva yanks her shirt over her head and wipes the salt on her face with it, banishing it to the growing pile of clothing they’re both building on the floor when it proves unhelpful. She makes for the bathroom sink to splash water on her face instead. There’s a scuffle behind her as Duck’s jeans hook on his ankles and trip him up, and his quiet grumbling has a smile twitching across her features.

“I am tired, Wayne,” she confesses, catching a glimpse of her blotchy face and the puffiness around her eyes in the mirror even as she tries to dodge her reflection. Duck watches her carefully as she rejoins him in the main room and hauls the rest of her clothes off; they’ve yet to be sensible enough to leave a set of pajamas at the Lodge, for all that it’s practically a second home. He reaches out to cup her cheek as she sits on the mattress, and Minerva leans into the touch. “I would sooner rest.”

Minerva’s time on this planet has made her soft, and battered away the once strong walls of her emotional resistance. She suspects years of solitude had already weakened the mortar, and that the gentleness of Duck’s love had been wearing away at the foundation like waves upon sandstone for as long as they had known each other. Until tonight, she had not properly cried in decades, and the action has dragged every ounce of energy for argument out of her. She owes him a greater explanation for her actions, and her dramatics, but he, ever-forgiving, allows her another unwarranted respite, gifted with a nod and a kiss.

“Act in solidarity, Duck Newton. If I have nothing to wear to bed then neither should you,” she jokes, as Duck makes to lay down with her. She gives him a gentle nudge on the hip. The humour flitters tiredly on her tongue, but Duck’s amused snort makes the quip wholly worth the effort.

He contorts to shuck off the last of his own vestments, and Minerva admires as much of his body as she can in the dark and given his movement. Duck battles with the positioning of the blankets and pillows, and then stretches an arm out for her; Minerva curls to place her head on his shoulder, and hooks an arm and leg over him. His fingers brush gentle patterns on the small of her back. He is quiet, in that considering, accepting way that he is, his kindness like the shade of a large tree against the harsh burn of the Brazillian summers. The rise and fall of his broad chest is a gentle current Minerva’s lungs can follow, and the coarse hair that swirls across his body in long trails tickles at her skin like grass in a summer-warmed meadow. Duck cradles her as a sun does an orbital planet, unaware of her awe.

The weight of the quiet and the slow pace of his breathing under her head have nearly lulled Minerva into unconsciousness when Duck’s fingers trace up her ribs, tickling just enough to rouse her. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice rumbling in his chest as he tilts his head to look at her. Minerva pries her eyes open just enough to admire his long eyelashes and the thoughtful tilt to his brows. “I never thought I’d… I wasn’t plannin’ on meetin’ you. On bein’ this with you. Whatever way you wanna do this is– it’s still gonna be the best thing that ever happened to me. Nothin’s make or break, okay? ‘Long as– ‘long as you want me, I’m gonna be here. Just… wanna be clear on that.”

Minerva’s breath latches on to the last of his words and disappears into the night, leaving her chest tight and her eyes watering. She collapses the last of the space between their bodies to press slow, reverent kisses to his jaw, and Duck automatically tilts to place his lips in her path. His free arm loops around to trace her hip. He is soft, so soft, his lips plush cushions to lay her affection and the scratch of his beard against her chin an iconic reminder of how different he is from anything Minerva grew up knowing. Her tired arms ache with the effort, but Minerva forces them to make slow, explorative paths along his ribs and the cushion of his stomach. It doesn’t feel like enough.

Duck makes a quiet noise of surprise as Minerva leans up on one arm to kiss him more deeply, and then inhales loudly through his nose as she musters the energy to sit up and straddle his hips. His broad palms brace her thighs reflexively. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, half a question and half a greeting. Minerva curls forward to kiss him again, and maps the expanse of his chest and shoulders with her palms, sweeping them across his pale skin as though it’s sand she’s trying to reshape. Duck’s heart thumps its reassuring slow pattern, the heavy rhythm palpable under her fingertips.

Gradually Minerva searches past the corners of his smile to press languid kisses across the round of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw, above his eyebrows and down the arc of his nose. His eyelashes flutter like the wings of a startled _anjib’a_ when she kisses each closed eye, and Duck leans up for her again as their lips regain their close proximity. His hands rubs reassuring paths along her legs and backside, appreciative of the contact.

Duck allows her to nudge his head to the side, and rises into the careful biting she does down the side of his throat, but his hands still by the time she’s nibbling the point where his shoulder and collarbone meet. She can feel the goosebumps her actions have caused rippling down his legs, and his growing physical excitement. She squeezes his biceps in encouragement.

Minerva guides his jaw back to hers and kisses him deeply, gathering up the breathy noises he makes and swallowing them away. His skin grows hot under her tongue, and Minerva breaks away to give the whole blushing expanse of his face a battering of affection. She tugs at his earlobes and smiles at his reaction, pressing her forehead to the crinkling shape of his. Their noses rub together, and Duck chuckles as she scrunches hers repeatedly, just because she knows it amuses him.

“I thought you wanted to rest,” he says quietly, and the genuine concern in the words nearly bowls Minerva over again. She smoothes her hands through his hair, savouring the silky texture of it and the way the strands curl around her fingers, looping around her knuckles like they crave her touch. Duck’s arm is heavy around her back, protectively hugging her against him. “You’re–”

Whatever argument Duck might have been preparing crumbles as Minerva reaches down between them to take his hardness in hand, and she moves with him as his back reflexively arches up. The shuddering inhale he takes drags her down, and her gathers her close with iron fingers.

The sounds Duck makes beneath her soothe her frazzled nerves, and the gentleness he envelopes her with pacifies the faint worries still circling in the back of her head. His palms sweep over her skin like warm water over frost, relaxing the stiffness still clinging to her muscles and molding them all the closer to the comforting shape of him. The tender kisses he pulls her in for are like electric shocks to her tired heart, encouraging it to ready itself for another day. Minerva lifts and rocks her own hips forward to slot their bodies together, and the venerative way Duck squeezes her waist as he fills her up sends a flush of heat to the tips of her ears.

His thumb sweeps over her jaw and draws her close, to better consume her crackling voice, and Minerva nearly falls apart as he bites and pulls carefully on her lower lip. His hips roll up against hers unhurriedly. Duck breathes her name like a prayer instead of a curse, like the wrongs associated with it are simple chaff that can be washed out over the repeat tide of his voice. Minerva tries to meet him with more intensity, but his tenderness knocks the wind from those proverbial sails; Duck consumes her with a patience she’s never been able to master, one she now can’t imagine living without.

Minerva swoops down to bury her mouth against her partner’s neck has he meets his breaking point. The sound of his crackling groan send a wash of goosebumps down her neck. The movement of his hips stutters and stills; his trembling palm cups the back of her neck to keep her close, and the other smoothes down the expanse of her stomach, trailed by soft, repeat calls of her name. Duck’s fingers find her in the faint space where they’re slotted together like key and lock, and whispers praise as she whimpers against his throat.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his touch unbearably gentle, and Minerva goes shuddering in his hands. She tangles her fingers into his hair and drags him in, praying each messy pairing of their lips conveys how deeply he affects her. He kisses away the tears that slip out in her moment of distraction; the deep rumble of his laugh vibrates every crevice of her chest as she grumbles and wipes at her face. 

Duck has her, and somehow, despite every screaming fearful word in her, Minerva still has him.

The Amnesty Lodge is appropriately named – it allows a sort of peace that the emotionally tired long for, the kind built on a lack of demands and a certain amount of reclusiveness. The building encourages a sort of lethargy that Minerva has seldom let herself experience, though she would just as soon put the blame on Duck’s inclination to sleep in. She finds herself blinking awake more than once after the sun has risen, but the arms wrapped around her are safe and sturdy, and the blankets that surround their intertwined bodies have become a moss grown over the roots of their limbs. Minerva decides to remain still. She nuzzles deeper into Duck’s shoulder and strokes his side until the movement lulls her back into the realm of unconsciousness.

Eventually they rise, of course – Minerva acknowledges her partner leaving by groaning and sprawling into his lingering warm spot on the mattress, and fully blinks awake when he returns with borrowed clothes for the both of them. Her tee shirt and pants from the previous day have been washed and folded for her; the faded print and size of the top Duck pulls over his head suggests it was pulled from Arlo Thacker’s old wardrobe.

Minerva sits on a couch in the great room mulling over a Sudoku puzzle for most of the morning, with a large mug of hot cocoa kept within easy reach and a heavy knit blanket thrown over her legs. None of the few present residents are surprised to see she and Duck join the breakfast table, long used to the two of them showing up in the middle of the night. A thin coat of snow has covered the grounds overnight, softening the already tranquil ambiance of the Lodge further. The hazy springs out back steam in the cool outdoor air, and a few wintering birds chirp loudly enough to be heard through the windows. Down the hallway comes indistinct murmuring; Duck is on the phone with his sister, keeping a conversation that began nearly an hour ago.

“Hey, alien lady,” a familiar voice calls, and Minerva glances up as Jake Coolice slides into the room. He grins, and the gesture is as bright as sunlight glaring off a snowbank, all teeth and neon colours. He’s the closest thing Minerva has found to a miralivaxian on Earth, with his bold disposition and excitable nature, and for nostalgia or personality’s sake she's found herself fond of the sylph.

“Hello, alien boy,” she smiles, playing into the repeat gag. Jake leans himself over the back of the couch, pitching forward over his folded arms and peering at her paper puzzle. Minerva tilts it up for him to better look at, but his focus quickly shifts back towards the hallway, and he begins bouncing on his toes.

“So are you guys… having a baby? Am I allowed to know that? I wanna call dibs on being like a– can I be an uncle? A godfather?” Discomfort flickers in Minerva’s chest, and winds slowly around her heart like invasive vines, withered under Duck’s reassurances but determined still to spread seed. She looks up at the sylph with scrunched brows, and Jake shrugs at her. “I heard Duck talking about it on the phone. Totally radical, Big M, you’re gonna be the coolest mom.”

“You misunderstand, Jake Coolice. Wayne Newton and I have no intention of becoming parents.”

“Oh,” Jake says, deflating. The couch vibrates as he gently kicks the backside; he hauls his body weight up onto his arms and settles down again. Minerva had been told, as a child, before the rules of the Order had drilled a sense of composure into her, that she was too lively a person, too haphazard with her energy and curiousity. She cannot find it in her to be bothered with Jake’s fidgeting, when it so mirrors habits that were once her own. “That’s a bummer. You’d be really good at it.”

Minerva takes a long sip of her drink, in hopes the warm, thick chocolate will smother the anxiety in her stomach and encourage her to face the interest his words have piqued. She asks why he thinks so, and Jake leans forward to pick at her blanket.

“Because you’re awesome?” he laughs, waving a hand like his is the most obvious answer in the world. “You’re always up for doin’ sports, and you can lift up entire trees, and you’re really chill when people mess up. And you, like– remember when Hollis broke their leg on the downhill? You carried them all the way down the mountain using two snowboards like skis. That was the most radical thing I’ve ever seen with my own two eyes, dude!”

“I fail to see how this qualifies me for parenthood,” Minerva says, but a grin climbs onto her face nonetheless. She has known Jake for only a few years, but he reminds her so much of the siblings she once had; he speaks from the heart, and with little diplomatic filter.

“Rescuin’ people’s basically caring for ‘em, I think. And you’re, like–” He swings his arms around, chopping at the cushions with the sides of his hands, “–big and strong and super intimidating! Nobody would mess with your kids! Oh, dang, and they’d probably be swole too, when they grew up, if you were their mom. But really, like, _nice_ swole people, since it’s you and Duck.”

Minerva considers him for a moment, this most honest of Lodge residents, and finds herself calmed by his blunt assessment (even without understanding half the words he used). A small part of her wonders if perhaps he has a point. Even with no desire to take on the responsibility of parenthood, she may yet be able to offer care and support to someone younger than she. She does not think it wise, necessarily, but Jake speaks as though she has already been a bolstering presence to him. From the earnestness of his words comes a startling truth: Minerva is someone he admires, and trusts. The realization sits like a warm ember in her chest – full of dangerous potential, but comforting anyway.

The clack of a phone hitting a receiver echoes down the hall, and Duck appears around the corner, an absolute picture of loveliness. 

“Gave Goose the rundown,” he says, wandering his way towards the sofa, struggling the whole while to find pockets or belt loops to rest his hands on within the borrowed pants he’s wearing. He pats Minerva’s leg as he sits, his contact warm even through the blanket. “She’s gonna talk to Mom and Dad and, uh, tell ‘em off. Get ‘em to give it a rest asking for grandchildren. I’ll talk to them myself when we swing by to grab out bags, uh, but I figured…”

“Your mother is still going to make that poultry soup with the bright green spice, is she not?”

“Huh? Yeah, I think so. We can get a couple of containers of it packed up to go, if you want.”

“I would sooner try it in person,” Minerva says, turning to Jake before her partner can unravel what she’s implying. She decides to build on the small confidence the sylph’s words have given her, and urge the ember into a new resolute inferno within her. She will not bow on her feelings about childbirth and parenting, but Jake believes she has been a supportive person, and Duck has proven he will stand by her side even with the gouges trauma has left in her heart and the sins she cannot wash herself clean of. She owes it to them to rise to their faith in her, and to show Duck’s family that her company can be beneficial even with the title of mother renounced. “Have you had such a thing before, Jake Coolice?”

“Green bird soup?”

“It’s a chicken soup with savoury,” Duck supplies, still staring at Minerva.

“Oh, nah, sounds wicked good though.”

“I suspect Eleanor Newton would be appreciative of more guests. You did say she loves ‘playing hostess’, and I believe she was disappointed we did not eat more of her previous meals.” The expressions of the two aliens before her differ wildly at her words; one grows bright with excitement, and the other wide with shock. “Jane Newton’s children are perhaps not ‘swole’, but they are very nice, and would enjoy your company as much as my own.” 

“Is this… an invite? Am I getting invited?” Jake asks, vibrating with joy and rocketing upright, his fingers drumming on the back of the couch. Minerva nods.

“Madeline Cobb informed me the Lodge has not had a large dinner as Wayne Newton’s family has, so this would be an excellent opportunity for the experience.”

“You haven’t had a Thanksgiving dinner, bud?” Duck turns towards the sylph, but the growing smile on his face and the grip he has on Minerva’s leg are clearly fed by his dawning realization. 

“Nah, dude, Barclay does all the best cooking, and he went out to stay with Stern’s– are you serious, for real?”

“I think so,” Duck says softly, looking at Minerva with such affection that she nearly blushes. Anxiety still flutters in her stomach like a small fish on a long line, reminding her of its presence and warning her of the potential conflict that being close to Duck’s parents could bring. But she had not been lying when she said she felt that she’d been impolite to his family, and few battles were won with retreats. Duck seems to understand her want for comrades as she marches into the fray; he suggests to Jake that he put on his coat and boots, and the sylph rushes towards the porch with a hoot. “The kids were really– Jane said they’ve been asking where you went. They keep playing ‘warriors’ out in the yard, tryin’ to be like their auntie.”

Minerva chugs down the last of her drink, and the new kindling has the ember of resolve in her heart rising to a brightly burning flame. She smacks the cup back into her lap with a decisive, “Let us return to them, then!”

Duck still checks, with a soft pat to her back and a murmured, “You sure?” He would bend without qualm if Minerva decided she would rather stay at the Lodge for the remainder of their visit, but the light in his eyes at her decision is too bright to deserve extinguishing, and Minerva will gain nothing from wallowing in her own discomfort. She had known from the beginning that she would be a different partner than any the Newtons might have expected for their son – it was the idea of failing Duck himself that had most scared her. His happiness is important to her, and she will weather any disappointment by Eleanor and James if their company and her presence among them is what he wishes for.

Mama wanders out to the foyer when Jake yells to her that he’s leaving, and offering her a similar invite to her seems natural. She initially needs convincing that joining the company won’t mean walking into an intense family drama, but Minerva’s bubbly disposition and Jake’s excited wiggling seem to be encouragement enough. The two Lodge residents clamber into Mama’s truck, and Minerva watches them in the rearview mirror for most of the drive, her hand folded in Duck’s and fingers tapping along with the radio and his scratchy, passable harmony.

She’s a little surprised to see the entirety of the Newton family standing out on the porch in the cool air waiting for them – Eleanor is still in a housecoat, her arms folded to protect her exposed skin from the temperature, but the rest are in various states of outdoor dress, and the children have clearly already been jumping through the snow. Duck gives Minerva’s hand one more squeeze and asks, “Ready?” as if backing out now makes any sense at all, and grins when Minerva rolls her eyes at him. Jane’s children come rushing toward the vehicle as they clamber out, but after initial hugs of Duck’s legs, they jostle each other into stopping a few feet away.

Minerva stares, uneasy; Kit and Alec stare back, though there’s a fidgeting to their movement she dares to believe is excitement. She decides the best course of action is to make herself as nonthreatening as possible, and crouches down on the gravel, folding her legs under her as if she means to meditate. It seems to be the signal the children are waiting for, because they rush forward immediately, battling each other for the first chance to fling their arms around Minerva’s shoulders. She opens her own arms reflexively to catch them, but barely touches their small backs.

“Auntie! Mom said– you’re gonna stay here again, right?”

“Yes,” Minerva nods, taken aback by the close proximity and the wildly uncoordinated movements of Jane’s younger child; Kit is a few years younger than their brother, and about the relative size Minerva was when she had initially started training in martial arts. Their hand swipes at a loose hair on their forehead, sending it flying; Minerva carefully tucks it back as their expression grows frustrated.

“Okay, good, ‘cause Mom said that you’re gonna show us how to do karate!”

“Nuh-uh, she said that Aunt Minerva _maybe_ was gonna show us karate if we asked nice! Aunt Minerva, can you do the– can you teach us to do super cool, like, ninja kicks?”

“I–” she looks towards the rest of the gathered company, collected near the front of the house. Duck is hanging back far enough to keep an eye on both her and the introductions Mama and Jake are making, and the conversations seem to be going smoothly, if the snippets she can hear are any indication – Keplerians are especially fond of questioning who knows whose relatives upon first meetings. She catches Jane looking away from her brother and smiling in the direction of her children, and says slowly, “With your mother’s consent, I can lead you through a few basic drills, I suppose.”

“She said you could!”

“She said that it was okay if it was you doing it,” Alec confirms, bouncing on his toes in anticipation. His restless movements suggest he won’t stand being still much longer, but his grip on her arm is firm. He’ll be broad like his uncle when he grows up, Minerva imagines, though perhaps taller. Early training in martial arts would put him on a path towards gracefulness and discipline, and Minerva nervously turns over the idea that she could be his teacher. Their blatant trust – _Jane’s_ blatant trust, after her slip-up – surprises her nearly as much as the small bodies that have made a home in her cautious embrace. “Please? Please, please? Uncle Duck said you’ve got a big sword! A really big one! I wanna learn to– I wanna use a sword too!”

“Me too!” Kit adds, watching their brother and mimicking his enthusiasm with a delighted pitch of their own voice. Their tiny hand pats Minerva’s shoulder, and they lean back against the broad expanse of Minerva’s arm like there’s no question it will support her. The last tightness in Minerva’s chest eases.

“I doubt Jane would let me give you swords, not until you’re at least as old as Wayne Newton.”

“But Uncle Duck is really old!” Kit shouts, which prompts squealing giggles when said man turns back from his conversation and barks, “Hey!”

Minerva tucks her head as the little ones’ laughter becomes contagious and rolls through her own chest. Somehow, despite her flaws and fallacies, Duck’s family has welcomed her just as he has, making space in their uniform lives for her irregular shape. His mother waves to beckon them as the crowd begins to pile into the house; Minerva lets the reassurance seep into her bones a moment after the children dash away. She tallies the group as they disappear past the doorway – her dear sylvan friend, the matriarch of Minerva’s new home, the parents and sister and niblings of her lover. They may not fully know or understand her, but Duck bridges her to them and defends her from their expectations. He believes that she deserves to stand in the same place as they do, loving and being loved, welcomed and forgiven.

Minerva stands and rushes to him, still waiting in the cold for her, and gathers him up in a kiss. Duck grunts in surprise but meets her anyway, his fingers icy where they slip under the side of her jacket and touch her hipbone. 

“Y’alright?” he asks, cheeks pink under her cupped hands, and Minerva kisses his nose.

“I’m with you,” she replies.


End file.
